Broken Ballerina
by dreamsweetmydear
Summary: We may dream big dreams, but too often it is those closest to us that tear them to shreds. Ziva-centric. Pre-NCIS. Warning: Death of OC.


**From the author's desk:** Another idea that's been nagging at me for the longest time. And surprisingly, it's not even remotely related to Tim. Partially inspired by a comment Ziva makes in Ep. 3.17 ("Ravenous") about wanting to see her father in the audience at her dance recitals.

I really hope I did Ziva justice, as she's really a wonderful character. I hope you all enjoy this.

**Disclaimer:** _NCIS_ and its characters are the property of Donald P. Bellisario and his associates. This was written strictly for non-profitable entertainment purposes.

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_**Broken Ballerina**_**  
****by **_**dreamsweetmydear**_

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"She is the best in her class," Madame Beaumont says in her thick French accent, and inwardly Ziva is thrilled.

She stands to the side, clutching her point shoes to her twelve-year-old self. Her mother glances at her from her wheelchair, a proud and loving smile gracing her features, thrilled that the last seven years of ballet has paid off so well in her daughter's favor.

Her father, on the other hand, remains unimpressed. "Madame, I would have been more surprised if you had told me that my Ziva is doing poorly. I expect nothing less than the best out of my children."

Ziva doesn't acknowledge the stinging comment behind those words: "This is a waste of my time."

Nor does she acknowledge the mention of her name in terms of ownership.

Her mother reaches a hand out to her, and Ziva steps forward, taking her mother's fragile hand in her own, lacing her fingers through her mother's. "Still," she says, her voice soft and melodious, "the fact that Ziva has reached such prowess at such a young age is to be commended."

"Indeed, it is," Madame Beaumont agrees with her. She knows exactly who will appreciate the art and majesty of dance in this set of parents. "And for her efforts, Ziva has been awarded a coveted solo in our upcoming recital. That is why I called you both here, to congratulate you. Your daughter is truly gifted."

"Thank you very much," her mother says, "but it is Ziva who has done the hard work. I am certain she will do all of us, and herself proud."

Ziva tightens her grip on her mother's hand, aware more than ever of how bony and light her hands have become as the illness eats at her from the inside.

"Because the recital is coming up in three weeks, I wanted to tell you in person that Ziva will be needed for a longer amount of time here at the studio. At least an extra hour everyday," Madame Beaumont explains, expecting Ziva's mother to answer whether or not this will be acceptable.

"That is fine," her father replies, surprising the instructor. Ziva knows the silent addition: "As long as it is not in my house."

Madame Beaumont nods. "Very well then. That is all for today. Ziva, make sure you get a good amount of rest tonight. We begin intense practice on your solo tomorrow. Congratulations again."

Ziva nods, a tiny smile gracing her lips, before pushing her mother's wheelchair out behind her father.

The ride home is filled with an oppressive silence, but all the while, Ziva holds her mother's hand, and watches for the secret smiles she has come to understand as her mother's version of "I am proud of you."

Once home, her mother is whisked away by a nurse. She is in need of rest.

As she goes to her own room, Ziva is acutely aware of the fact that her mother will be gone soon. And then all that will be left is her father, and her siblings.

That night, Ari comes to talk with her while she sits by the fountain in their man-made garden.

"Mother says that you have been chosen for a solo in your upcoming dance recital," he begins after sitting with her for sometime in silence.

Ziva nods.

"Congratulations." He puts his hand over hers.

"Will you be coming to watch my performance?" she asks him, turning to face her big brother.

His eyes are warm, and there is a smile on his face, and humor in his voice. "What a sislly question, my sister. Of course I will come. Watching you dance is like watching the creation of art."

Ziva is silent, and does not smile back. "Do you think Father will come?"

Ari pauses before answering. "Ziva—"

"Don't answer that," she cuts him off. They both know the answer.

And they both know that Ziva will still hope for a different outcome this time.

"Are you excited?" Ari asks her, and she finally smiles for him.

"Yes. It is an acknowledgment of my hard work."

"I'm sure you will do wonderfully."

"I hope so."

They sit in silence for a time.

"I want to dance forever, Ari. I want the title of _prima ballerina assoluta_." She turns her gaze from him to look up at the stars dotting the desert sky.

He smiles, but does not answer.

She knows he doesn't believe in dreams anymore, after having his own dreams of becoming a painter destroyed. But she appreciates that he does not break her dreams because his have been shattered.

"You should go to bed soon, Ziva. A great dancer such as my sister needs her rest, yes?" he tells her instead, and presses a kiss to her cheek. "_Lailah tov_."

And he returns to the house, leaving her alone again. It is not long after that she follows him inside.

The next three weeks pass in a blur. Ziva is aware of little but her schoolwork, her piano, her solo for the recital, and her mother's rapidly deteriorating health. Ziva knows that there is a chance her mother will not be able to go to the recital to watch her perform. Her heart feels heavy at the thought.

The night before the recital, her mother calls for her. When Ziva goes to see her, her mother is bundled in bed, an IV in each arm to give her both hydration and nourishment, as she cannot eat anymore. Seeing her mother like this pains her, but she does not show it.

"Come here, _tateleh_. Come and sit by me." Her mother's voice is soft and hoarse. Ziva is simply happy that she is lucid enough to speak.

"You are better today, Ima," Ziva tells her as she sits on the bed with her.

"It is the first I've felt this good in a long time," her mother says through thin lips. Ziva cannot help but notice how frail her mother looks, but the light in her brown eyes continues to make her beautiful. "Are you excited for tomorrow?"

Ziva nods with a broad smile.

"Good. Are you nervous?"

Ziva bites her lip before answering, "Yes. A little."

Her mother's weak fingers push the bangs away from Ziva's face. "A few nerves are good for a performer, They will keep you alert, and ready. The trick, my little ballerina, is to not let them consume you."

"I know, Ima. You have said this all to me before," Ziva says with a small laugh.

"Yes, I know. But I would not be your Ima if I did not tell you so again, no?"

Ziva nods, and smiles at her mother. "Yes. I know."

Her mother smiles back. "I am very excited to see you on that stage tomorrow."

A grin splits her face. "You are coming? For certain?"

Her mother's smile is hopeful. "If I feel as well as I do now tomorrow, then yes, I will come to your recital. And perhaps I can even convince your father to come with your siblings and myself."

She thanks her mother silently with a hug. Surely, he will listen to her mother and come and watch her tomorrow.

"Now off to bed with you, Ziva. You need a good night's sleep, because tomorrow is a big day," her mother murmurs into her hair, and Ziva pulls away from her with a smile on her face.

She presses a kiss to her mother's cheek, and gets off the bed. "_Lailah tov_, Ima."

Ziva can already see her mother's eyes dropping in exhaustion. "_Lailah tov, tateleh_."

She shuts the door carefully behind her so as not to disturb her mother, and returns to her room, hope heavy in her heart that perhaps this time, her father will come to see her dance.

The day of the recital Ziva spends in her usual routine—wake up, sparring practice, breakfast, and then off to school—but after school, she goes straight to the theater where the recital is being held tonight.

First comes stretching, and warm up exercises. And then rehearsal of the group routine. And now rehearsal for her solo, lasting the length of one song.

Ziva is especially fond of her piece, full of spins and leaps and twirls. It was Madame Beaumont's idea to make it a contemporary dance sequence, and now that she's seen it come together in the extra hours of practice over the last few weeks, she can't be more pleased with the result. She can only hope that everyone else will love it just as she does.

Soon everyone is backstage, getting ready for the show. All the soloists—one from each class—have been given a separate dressing room to share. Once ready in her group performance outfit, she steps out to the closest wing, and takes a peek at the audience and the dimly lit stage.

Her stomach is filled with butterflies, and she feels jittery, like there is an electric current running through her, as in the third row she sees her mother, and Ari and Tali sitting together. There is an empty seat next to her mother, a program reserving it for her father.

She doesn't know if her mother was able to speak to him about coming or not, but she hopes that he will come, so that he can see how hard she has worked.

But now, it is showtime.

The curtains rise, and the stage is bright with spotlights, and ballerinas and cavaliers of all ages come on stage. The strains of the orchestra guide the dancers' steps, little girls and boys on half points, young men and women—Ziva included—twirling and leaping and gliding across the stage _sur les pointes_. The school's prima ballerina is center stage, dancing the first solo of the night.

Soon, she will be in that spot, dancing for all to see.

The routine and the music finish, the curtains fall, and Ziva hurries backstage with the rest of her peers, changing quickly from her pancake tutu and white leotard into the deep blue of her solo outfit, the "romantic" tutu flowing softly to her calves, a feathered and sequined face mask hiding all but her mouth.

"Ziva, on stage!" Madame Beaumont calls to her, and she races quickly to center stage.

She feels the butterflies in her stomach, the adrenaline flowing in her veins. She is aware of how her leotard clings to her, of the trickle of sweat pouring down her spine, the prick of fear in her rapidly beating heart.

Ziva throws the notion of fear from her mind, rising to the tips of her point-shoes, her arms placed in the gateway position. The curtains rise, the music begins, and the stage becomes alive with her presence—twirling a grand pirouette in second position seamlessly into a leap flowing into a pause on the point of her right foot, from which she twirls again, pauses, jumps again, spins again, moving, moving, moving. And all the while, she feels her heart bursting within her chest, and feels the smile curling her lips.

For this moment, she is unchained, belonging to no one but herself. The stage, the lights, the music are hers, encompassing her, lifting her, making her shine. And as the music swells into its finale, she spins herself into oblivion, her eyes closed in bliss behind their mask.

And then the curtain falls, and the music fades away, and she comes to a stop, feeling both accomplished and spent. The adrenaline drains from her body, leaving her trembling. Her body is deliciously sore, a sure sign that she has worked hard tonight.

Ziva cannot help but feel proud. Taking the congratulations of her peers on a job well done with a quiet smile, she moves to the closest wing again, to peek out at her family in the third row.

The seat next to her mother is still empty, reserved with a program. Ari, seeing her peeking out from behind the curtains, gives her a smile, mouthing the words "absolutely beautiful" to her. She gives him a trembling smile, and heads back to the dressing room to wait out the rest of the performance.

As always, he didn't come. She should have known.

She tries to swallow the lump in her throat, to not show her disappointment.

The rest of the recital is fuzzy in her mind. She is aware of coming back on stage for the final bow, but other than that, the next thing she remembers is her mother coming back stage, and pressing a warm kiss to her cheek, and pushing a bouquet of red roses into her arms.

"My Ziva," she murmurs. "My beautiful Ziva. You were outstanding tonight. I am very proud of you. I am only sorry your father could not be here."

Ziva ignores the tightness in her chest at the mention of him, and responds with a simple, "Thank you, Ima."

Eight-year-old Tali tugs at her tutu. "You were pretty up there, sister. I want to dance like you one day."

She brushes her fingers through her sister's dark hair. "If you work hard, you will."

Ari remains quiet, but gives her a warm smile. She already knows what he thinks of tonight's performance.

"Come _tateleh_. Shall we go home?" Ziva sees the exhaustion in her mother's eyes, and knows that she cannot hold out anymore. She nods, and walks with her family to the car.

"Promise me you will never stop dancing, my Ziva," her mother tells her that night before bed. "I am proud of you, and I love you very much."

"You sound as though you are saying good-bye, Ima," Ziva tells her mother as she sits on her mother's bed, just as she did the night before.

Her mother gives her a tired smile. "You never know when the world will end, _tateleh_. It is good to say these things as much as possible. Now, it is late, and I know you are tired, as am I. Shall we go to bed?"

Ziva smiles, and nods. "_Lailah tov_, Ima."

Her mother's eyes are already closed as she answers. "_Lailah tov_, my beautiful Ziva. I love you."

"I love you too, Ima." Ziva presses a kiss to her mother's cheek, and leaves the room for her own.

As she walks down the hallway, she can hear Ari and her father shouting at each other downstairs. The words "recital," "solo," and "waste of time" reach her ears, and she knows exactly what is being argued, and who is on which side.

She hurries to her room, not wanting to hear anymore.

That night, the world ends, and Ziva's mother leaves with it. The bit of light that still remained in the large house disappears, replaced by an oppressive silence punctuated only by the quiet sobs of two motherless girls and a step-motherless boy.

The funeral comes and goes, a month passes, two months pass, and in her grief, Ziva remembers what her mother wanted her to promise. She feels bad thinking about dance at a time like this, but Ziva could never say no to her Ima. "I promise," she says in her heart.

She takes comfort in the promise, and decides it is time to begin dancing again, if only to bring some light back into this dark, quiet house.

Her point shoes in her hand, and her supplies in her bag, she goes downstairs to call the driver.

At the door, however, her father stops her.

"I am sorry, Ziva. But I need you here now. Tali needs a mother, but you and Ari are all she has. Perhaps later, if there is a chance, we can speak to Madame Beaumont about your lessons. But not today, I'm afraid."

And Ziva knows her dreams are being shattered forever, being replaced by an ever tightening chain binding her to her father for as long as she lives.

That night, when Ari comes to talk with her by the fountain, all she can do is cry in her big brother's arms.

Later, she will remember that he was crying too, for the fact that just like him, her dreams were broken by the one who should have been trying to preserve and nurture them.

And many, many years later, in the company of a new family and in a place far away from Israel, she will uphold the promise she made to her Ima.

But until then, she will place her beloved point shoes into a box, tuck it into the back of her closet with her most prized possessions, and wish time and time again for the stage, and in that time the bar will be waiting patiently for her return.

For as Madame Beaumont has always told her, "The dancer is incomplete without the bar. In all the turmoils of a dancer's life, the bar will always be there for her."

**-/End/-**


End file.
